


Fight Club

by pettiot



Series: Professionals Timeline [4]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, M/M, bored soldiers, the opposite of negotiating kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22240885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Violence is a drug.  Bodie's bored, and a whole warzone away from safe places to angst.
Series: Professionals Timeline [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600894





	Fight Club

'Did you hear that? Fucking bastards.'

'Leave it, Bodie.'

'Didn't join our angels to sit here listening to this same old jungle rot on replay—'

Keller lowered his cards. 'Let it go. Gerard's not a kid. You want to go all indignant about something, go back to bitching about that bird, Jameson's bad breath, the generals and their fucking— Look, something that's not get you mucked up if you get involved.'

Keller glowered at him with a mix of disinterest and intensity. _Don't fuck up, Bodie; God, you're boring, Bodie._

The problem with partnerships, really, the duty to protect someone you’d grown close enough to really dislike. Bodie didn't object to Keller's constant verbals, just the bored tone of voice the man delivered them in. There were times when he missed Keith and the old crew hard enough to hurt.

The sandstorm surely covered the distant cries, but Bodie imagined them clearly enough.

Glaring back at Keller, Bodie threw his cards across the room, stood, and stalked to the absence of door. They were in ruins, limestone and plaster baked white and flaking, rooves mostly intact, tarpaulin stretched where structure lacked. Eyes narrowed in anticipation of the storm, he inched open the covering where the door had been.

The habit of checking, twice-checking, of needing an outlook had been ingrained in him too deeply; every time he entered a room he had to check. He could play a game in cities, making himself wait, walking a circuit of a room before the itch to move to the window, the door, overwhelmed. The aforementioned girlfriend took the opportunity of his last leave to cite this perimeter check first and foremost of Bodie's most annoying habits, closely followed by his dress sense (lame), his sense of humour (poor), his common sense (lack of), his sensibilities in public (prudish), his enjoyment of alcohol (excessive), his friends (boring, blokey, usually drunk), his own range of interests (boring, blokey, generally involving getting drunk and/or shooting things), and so on.

‘Why are you with me then?’ He’d dared ask her, stung.

She gave him such a look of scorn. ‘Look in the mirror, you moron.’

From strolling about thinking you were a handsome bugger, it was another thing entirely having someone tell you it was your only redeeming feature. But that was soft old Bodie, loyal to a fault. He argued with her a bit until the sound of his own whining shamed him into fury, leading directly into a stubborn, irrevocable silence clamping down tight on everything he wanted to say or do, lest he actually _do_ what wanted to do. Which silence was, he discovered, another thing right up there on her list of things about her SAS boyfriend she hated.

When this stint was done, he would drop her by postcard, he decided. From Amsterdam, preferably written while getting the blowjob of his life, which would mak e such a lovely postscript if he could bring his poor, boring, prudish self to write the words.

Across the sandblasted ruin of a road was a second inhabited hut, light flickering in the depth of the tunnelled stairs, just barely, if you knew where to look for it. Bodie tensed his fists, worked his knuckles. No getting drunk with what they had planned for the storm’s end, which left precious few ways of letting off the rage. Keller’s card sharping wasn’t one of them.

The bastards had gone at Gerard with a shovel. Bodie knew. He’d been in supply tasking the storeman, who was either incompetent or selling munitions to the locals, considering the sudden lack of what had been a surplus. Allen came in, picked up a shovel, gave Bodie a knowing look, and walked off.

Right. Bodie had been in circulation with Allen’s mob once before, he knew the procedure. Allen sent out two of his newest recruits to drag in a third. They’d wait til after a visit to the bog, take out the newbie with the shovel, head if he was a toughie or thighs if they wanted him lively, and all’s in. Two years ago, Bodie had not let himself be taken down, but he doubted Gerard the savvy to duck.

‘I said,’ Keller muttered, ‘leave it, Bodie.’

‘Sniper, Keller. If he can’t see tomorrow, I’m gonna break Allen’s neck.’

‘So do it tomorrow.’ All at once, Keller sounded revolted. ‘Jesus, you’re predictable! Sod off then! Don’t expect me to patch you up. Mad cunt.’

Bodie clenched his teeth, covered his eyes and ran through the storm.

Inside Allen’s ruin, a little stove gave the space a disturbingly homely glow. Five of Allen’s cohort perched or crouched about the room, mostly dressed. Gerard was naked but for his boots, struggling to his hands and knees in the center, on a tarp. Skin awash with sweat, the bruises were thick and rising. Bodie was caught by the mottling at the lowest ribs, black on top of older yellow.

This wasn’t Gerard’s first mistake, then; and Allen hadn’t changed, with the side blows. Strike him there with cock still in, the tension, clenching spasm as the body closed in pain and desperation.

‘Sergeant,’ Allen said. He wasn’t wearing his shirt. He’d actually got fat, packed solid over the muscle. Bodie’s heart rate lifted, both revulsion and recollection.

‘You’re a disgrace.’ A scornful glance around the mob. Working with Keller, at least he didn't have to lead anyone here, or he’d have to walk out. God, he was starting to hate this life. ‘The lot of you.’

Gerard groaned, collapsed to his side. He blinked up at Bodie through sweat and pain, vision obviously blurred.

‘How the hell d’you think the ambush is going to go if he’s incapacitated? Key roles, Allen, and this little git’s got the big one. Or weren’t you paying attention?’

Allen stiffened, eyes narrow and dark. ‘I’m bored, not stupid. He’ll be fine. No head blows.’

‘Get out of here.’ Bodie gestured at Gerard, sharp and angrily. ‘Go on, get out. Don’t let anyone see you like this, or you’ll be getting worse.’

Relief mingled with an odd look of spite, Gerard rolled, crawled for his clothes.

Bodie understood that look of spite well enough. The shame first, in another’s power. But Allen was good, for all the brutality. Crooned the right words. Encouragement mixed with insult, filthy talk. Coaxed the adrenaline out before setting right in, paced himself, til the realisation of how much a man could take came belated, with the shock, God, he was _taking it_ and still standing, still breathing, still alive. Soul flying high with the self-administered drug, shock and disassociation and power.

Could never trust Allen not to go too far, no; could never lose himself completely. But what an edge to walk.

Gerard scuttled out. Bodie hated him, too, for a moment. If the lad could take care of himself, Bodie would have no excuse for being here.

Allen hadn’t moved, eying him, considering, hands on his hips just above the too-tight belt.

‘Now what’m I supposed to do?’ Allen asked. His jaw worked, back and forth. Because the violence just wasn’t enough without shit up his nose as well. Greedy prick.

Bodie felt the disdain settling on his skin, a shield. He cracked his neck, to one side then the other, and shifted into a fighting stance.

The corner of Allen’s mouth twitched upwards. One of the background soldiers spat into the dirt, and stood. Two others circled, slow, no attempt to hide. The last one took off his belt.

‘This’ll kill you one day, Bodie,’ Allen said, almost friendly.

The words came so easily, steadily, Bodie had to smile. ‘Talking me to death, sweetheart?’

A laugh, light and free. The first blow lashed out.

  



End file.
